


Red Carnation

by under_stars



Series: Ivar/Reader Various Works [4]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Reader Insert, Romance, Sort of a Songfic, Valhalla, a little sad, ivar is a sad romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24378874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_stars/pseuds/under_stars
Summary: A red flower, he needed to find a red carnation. Your promise to finally reunite. The promise to finally come home.
Relationships: Ivar (Vikings)/Reader, Ivar (Vikings)/You, Ivar - Relationship, Ivar/Reader
Series: Ivar/Reader Various Works [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741789
Kudos: 107





	Red Carnation

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very small one-shot, but I found a translation of a foreign poem/song and I just fell in love with the lyrics- I just had to write something.
> 
> Also, the representation of Valhalla is probably the least accurate possible. But oh well, it is what is.

He still remembered your voice.

A mellow, gentle voice that could calm the storm and scatter the grey clouds of sadness away. He remembered your eyes too, so beautiful, so crystal, they put the sun and the moon and the stars to shame. He could still feel your soft touch on his skin, where you had touched him there the warmth had stayed. The memory of your lips on his had never left him, an endless reminder of your smile.

But he always came back, it all led back, to your voice.

Soft and melodic and sweet. A singing voice- the Christians would call it one of the angels. He did not believe in angels, no. But if they ever existed, if they ever sang as they have been said to, then he knew it must have been just like your voice. Ethereal.

You liked to sing, you always did, ever since he had met you. He himself had never been a singer, he lacked both the talent and the willingness. But for you there was no moment that did not call for a song, even in days of utmost happiness or deep despair or blinding misery and sinking confusion, you sang.

And he had loved you for that, oh so much. For it had never failed to lift his spirit high in the skies, to gift him with the strength he needed to go on. To make him feel he was truly home there and then.

He was home when you sang. He was home when you were there.

But you weren’t- not anymore. You were singing in Valhalla now. He had lost his home a long time ago.

.............

His eyes fluttered open. He was immediately met with a blinding white light, so blinding that he instantly closed his eyes shut. He felt tired, his body heavy. He felt mysteriously elated though, his soul felt elevated somehow, a strange alien feeling sleeping in his chest. A lightweight sensation.

He opened his eyes again, this time he kept them so. He sat up and cast a curious glance around, for he knew not where he was.

He was too astonished to move.

The blinding light had retreated, leaving a soft mist and wan sunshine in its place. A soft rumble was audible, the air was thick and shimmery. Endlessness was the only visible sight.

And then he knew where he was.

He was in Valhalla. He remembered now, he had fallen dead by an enemy sword, during an epic, wild battle he had led himself. The uproar and the clash of metal and wood ringed loudly in his ear, a reminder of savagery, of utter fury. He had been defeated, yes, but he had reached Valhalla. The pains of reality could not reach him now. The glory was his to revel in.

He should get up and find the hall where all the great dead warriors feasted themselves to eternity. He should go and find his place among his father and Floki and all the others who had died for glory.

He was in Valhalla...he could not believe it.

Wait...he was in Valhalla...and that meant one thing only...

His heart leapt.

You...you were there, you should be! He would find you, he would be with you at last. He would reach home at last.

.............

He walked ahead, his crutches with him, never parting with them even in the Otherworld. He walked and walked and even stumbled a bit, until he reached a golden shining gate, which he went through unbothered, alone. At the end of it stretched a field and he gave a small gasp at the pandemonium of colours he had just laid eyes on. The field was green and unending, the sky was blue and omnipresent, the sun was beaming, and in front of him there was an horde of people, of the dead.

Truly, it was so many of them, so many one would feel surprised at how many lives death has claimed. They all seemed so occupied with themselves or with their companions, no one even raised a head to acknowledge his coming. Perhaps because it was unimportant, his arrival. So many must come everyday.

He shifted uneasily at the sight in front of him, how could he find you through this whirlwind of shadowbodies, through this plethora of voices and eyes and laughs and chatter?

He looked around hopelessly, feeling overwhelmed, defeated. He felt too tired to continue. It would take him an eternity to find you...how ironic.

“(Y/N)...”, he murmured to himself, his voice feeble.

_So you can recognize me through the crowd_  
_I placed a red carnation on my chest_

His jerked his head upwards, astounded. A voice. He had heard a voice.

_Returning from a celebration that had just ended_  
_A celebration you were reluctant to come along to_

He could not be mistaken. It was your voice, the voice of the moon and the mysteries and the angels, and you were singing your favourite song.

_Red carnation_  
_Placed it on my shirt, where the heart is_

You had always liked flowers, always making sure you picked a fresh bunch everyday, to place on your hair and your dress and sometimes, in order to tease him, you would tug one on his ear for good measure. And almost every time, his heart softened by the sweet smell of the flowers and your words, he would let you.

And in return, you always wore a red flower in your hair.

You had never had a preference but he always thought, quite adamantly, that red flowers suited you best. He was not sure why, but it was something the illuminating red colour, although not soft, added to your looks, a feeling of an unforgettable gentleness, an everlasting presence. Perhaps it was that he was only mad with love and- undeniably- red is the colour of love.

_Red carnation_  
_Take it from my chest and hold on to hope_

Coincidentally, your most beloved song, the song you sang most beautifully in his humble opinion, was about a red flower. You had sung it to him when you had first met as children and you had sung it to him on your very last day. Only that on that painfully distant day your voice had been broken and the red flower of the song matched with the stains on your clothes. That day the song had been a promise, your next meeting would be in Valhalla and the two of you would reunite.

He was in Valhalla now and it was your song that he had heard. Your promise. You were near.

He limped forward, frantically looking around him. He could not see you. He called your name, his face twisting with worry, with hope.

_Lost into the crowd I asked_  
_‘Who wears a red carnation on the heart?’_

Your voice echoed through the noise and the crowded void again, sweet, tender. He was now walking frenzied among the crowd, desperately longing to spot you. Perhaps you had a red flower on you, like the song always suggested, like you always did for him.

A red flower, he needed to find a red carnation.

_I found you and took it with my bare hands_  
_The hands you have come to love_

He froze. The crowd, the shadows, the mist, the greenery, it all vanished. The giddying white light showered him again. His heart hammered.

A red flower, a red carnation, a promise to reunite.

You were there. A few paces in front of him, your hands on your chest where the heart is, where the red flower blooms.

You smiled and outstretched your hands. But he could not move forward, his vision already blurred with tears. Tears of happiness. His weak legs quickly gave in and he fell on the ground.

You rushed to him immediately. You threw yourself on him, you embraced him tenderly. You were crying too. The red flower fell from your chest, but none of you had eyes for it anymore. You cupped his face to make sure it was him, you were not dreaming. But there are no dreams after death, no dreams in Valhalla.

“Ivar, you finally came...”, you cried with joy. And it was the voice he loved so much.

He embraced you back, ever so tightly, and you kissed him lovingly. You would not be separated ever again.

“Yes, my love.”

For Ivar was finally back home.


End file.
